


True Love's Ink

by Winterwasp



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff and Humor, Gen, TattooArtist!Sandor, Tattoos, Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-02-12 18:19:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2119968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterwasp/pseuds/Winterwasp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa hopes to revive her souring relationship with a tattoo. However, persuading the notorious tattoo artist the Hound to consider her design turns out to be more of a hassle than she bargained for.</p><p>written for Zsra187's prompt on the Sansa_Sandor LJ Comment Fic Meme</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Trip

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zsra187](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zsra187/gifts).



> Zsra187's original prompt: Modern AU, featuring Sandor as a tough-talking, no bullshit tattoo artist and Sansa as the young, naive customer getting her first tattoo. Bonus points if Sansa wants some sort of 'Joffrey' tattoo as a token of her love and Sandor tries to talk her (or scare her in his own terrifying way) out of it. 
> 
> I've posted the full story on the Sansa_Sandor LJ but I intend to have it up here completely (with some parts rewritten) at a good pace. Working on this was lots of fun, I hope you'll enjoy reading it as much as I had writing it.
> 
> A/N: Don't think too hard on the distances between places, because I didn't either. Also, All right belong to George R.R. Martin.

A wave of heat hit Sansa as she opened the pub door, followed by a nauseating aroma of smoke, earth and rotten eggs. She couldn’t stop herself from scrunching up her nose and taking a deep breath, shutting out the foul stench from her nostrils. _Gods, it’s so hot in here._ Brown sconces shaped to look like torches were the only light source in the establishment by which the patrons of the Hollow Hill pub could identify the color of their drink. She had expected it to be pretty much deserted at early noon. The three men eyeing her as they hung in various poses at the bar, and several others participating in a rowdy pool game at the back, proved her assumption wrong. 

She tried, again, to straighten out her skirt, so the hem would come just a little bit lower and she’d feel a little less exposed. As soon as her phone had guided her to the faded stores and bars that crowded Stoney Sept Alley, she had cursed herself for wearing her old but cherished white dress with its red bird prints. The distinct stares that passersby directed at her as she _tack_ ed past them in her low heeled sandals reminded her sorely of the fact that she’d grown out of the dress by a few inches. Two thirty-something women sharing a cigarette outside a seedy hotel named 'The Peach' had smirked at her, one of them calling out, “Hey doll, here to rent a bed?” Sansa’s skin had turned a deep shade of red as she sped up, eyes desperately scanning the vicinity for her destination.

_Hound Tattoos, Stoney Sept Alley thirteen_ she’d kept chanting in her head to drone out her mounting unease. But instead of locating the tattoo shop where Google Maps had ascertained her it would be, she found the greasy front of the Hollow Hill pub.

“Excuse me,” she said as she approached the bartender, ignoring the patrons strung about the bar. The man behind had his back turned to her as he was rearranging some bottles, while humming a tune Sansa could put no name to. He turned around at the sound of her voice. A friendly, creased face with a big nose and a larger mouth greeted her, his eyes shining and his mouth curving upward as he took her in. “Well hello there, sweetheart,” he said in a lilting voice. “Lost your way?” 

Sansa usually reacted coldly to people she knew hide nor hair of who used endearments to address her. She considered it improper. _I wish Joffrey would do it more, though._

“I don’t know,” she said, tugging at her dress. “I was looking for a shop that’s supposed to be here, at number thirteen.”

“You sure you didn’t take a wrong turn on the Gold Road, miss? The shopping district is mostly over at Lannisport, another ten miles further down,” he told her with a benign smile.

“No. It’s not that kind of shop, sir.” She felt a blush come on, knowing how utterly out of place she must look. “I’m looking for a tattoo parlor, by the name of Hound Tattoos.”

“Hah!” snorted one of the patrons, a burly man who sported the ugliest yellow jacket Sansa had ever seen. She had no idea how the man could stand to wear it in the oppressive warmth of the pub. “You girl, looking for that sour old dog?” he asked. “Did ye hear that, Tom?”

The bartender looked surprised at first, but reverted back to his broad smile before Sansa could blink. “Wouldn’t have guessed you for one of his clients,” said the man. “He’s set up on the upper floor.” 

“Oh.” She let her eyes wander the space of the dark pub in search of a door or stair. 

“Not here. Go back out front and right, up the stairs next to the building,” Tom informed.

“Right. Thank you very much, sir.” 

The bartender made as if he took off an invisible hat for her gratitude, a gesture that made her smile. “Until we meet again, fair lady.”

“Wouldn’t count on that,” the man in the yellow jacket smirked, leaning beside him, “probably runs off screaming when she sees-” he was saying, but the loud _clang_ of a glass being forcefully put down interrupted him. “That’s enough outta you, Lem,” Tom admonished.

 

Sansa looked around the corner of the pub, and discovered the stairs Tom had pointed her to. She examined the wall, but even here there was no sign of a marker announcing the existence of a tattoo shop. “Someone should introduce the owner to the basics of commerce and marketing,” she mumbled.

Her attempts to find a website or any other digital outlet of the place had come up empty too, though she came across many comments on various boards and social media raving about the genius inks of 'the Hound'. The photographs and images of the guy’s work floating around on the web were mostly too dark and gothic for Sansa’s taste – lots of skulls and weapons and mean looking monsters and the like - but she could see the skill of the artist. _He has to be good._ And she wanted it to be good.

_It will solve things between me and Joff._ After years of pining after him from afar and two glorious months of actually dating handsome and popular Joffrey Baratheon, a snag had come up in their relationship. It started with Joff sending her an increasing number of texts asking her where she was, who she was with, what she was doing. She thought it cute and thoughtful at first. Then came the little remarks he made when they were together, about other guys she talked with or looked at. They evolved from playful to angry and jealous, with Joffrey accusing her of, of – capriciousness. Their last date had been a total disaster.

Joffrey’s change in just a few weeks’ time confused her immensely, when all had been going so well. He’d been the very incarnation of the Prince Charming she had imagined him to be. Despite Sansa’s repeated assurances to appease his sudden fits of jealousy, Joff still seemed determined to think the worst of her, and she longed to get back her former prince. Her worry kept her up at night, until the answer came to her. 

A tattoo. An indelible proof. She was certain that when Joffrey saw this boldest kind of love declaration on her skin, all of his doubts would disappear. _He will love me fully again, he will. He has to. Everything will be perfect once more._

Sansa started up the stairs. Halfway she heard a muted beep from inside her purse. _Joffrey._

She had prepared for this. She’d told Jeyne her plans, and though her friend had protested heavily, saying only thugs got tattoos, she agreed to tell everyone who called that Sansa was enjoying herself on their shopping spree in Harrenhal. It was a safe ruse. Harrenhal mall was so enormous no one would question if they’d actually been there. In the meantime Jeyne would shelter in a local coffee bar none of their friends frequented. 

Sansa pulled out her phone. 

- **Wher r u?**

_How considerate_ , she sighed inwardly. The sooner they made up, the better.

- **Harhal mall wth J** , she texted back. That would satisfy Joff for a while, hopefully.

Distracted by her phone handling, she took the last steps and halted on the small platform in front of the shop door. She looked up. Her mouth fell open.

The wall had been painted with graffiti. A huge, snarling dog-head with ferocious fangs, glistening with slaver and blood covered the surface. It coated the door, which was located in the reddish dark of the dog’s throat between its incisors. The image looked so terrifying and lifelike that Sansa wavered to grab the door handle. For the second time that day, she was reminded of how out of place and out of her league she felt. 

_Maybe I should go back_ , she thought. _I could surf the net again, and find a nicer tattoo parlor. Somewhere where flowers and hearts and cute bunnies are more prominently featured._ Surely there had to be shops of that kind too. She’d only latched onto the Hound’s name because she heard Arya drop it once in a conversation with one of her skater friends. And the place had been conveniently far from Winterfell, so she wouldn’t bump into someone familiar on her secret trip. 

She was about to turn back, when her phone went off again.

- **Joff txtd, tld him cov story**

Sansa stared back into the dreadful jaws of the dog. If she wanted her boyfriend to stop double-checking her words, she was prepared to face the dark unknown.

 

In her mind, Sansa pictured the interior of Hound Tattoos as black and menacing as the mural bedecking the entrance. The handle creaked as she pulled it down and pushed the door inwards with some effort. Inside an alarm went off, and contrary to Sansa’s ominous fantasies about grave church bells, a dry _ring_ jingled. The catacomb she had envisioned turned out to be a light, long rectangular room, with yellow walls that made her think of the wheat fields snaking by on the highway from Winterfell to the Neck. The room was empty save for her. She sniffed a rather stale and faintly medicinal scent in the shop. 

Several black frames covered the long sides of the room, showcasing the work of the Hound, designs as well as actual photos of tattooed body parts. Just as Sansa had already picked up from her internet search, dark and gloomy was the overriding theme of the images, with here and there a lick of red. A wooden display case with a glass cover stood lonely against the left wall, and when she came closer she saw that it enclosed what looked like a real sword. She cautiously laid a hand on the cold glass, examining the weapon inside. 

“With you in a minute,” a gravelly voice announced behind her. She whipped her head around and saw the back of a massive figure disappear about the corner of a screen at the back wall. She gulped. _He’s big._

Tugging at her skirt, she darted closer to the counter at the further end, and tried to take a sneak peek behind the screen. She heard several noises of things being displaced, and saw the tail-end of a big leather chair. The peculiar smell of the place got stronger too. 

She was leaning closer and closer, almost going beyond the counter, when his steps suddenly trounced her way. _Oops_ , she thought, springing back from her impolite peeping position. With only seconds to spare, she turned her head to one of the frames, trying to affect an unperturbed state, a play that was undermined by she short gasps of breath she snapped. The heavy footfalls stopped, and she felt eyes on her, yet didn’t dare move. 

Moments went by, and her breathing at least slowed somewhat.

“Want a taste of the Stranger, girl?” rasped the man known as the Hound.

She hoped against hope that he would not notice her heavy blush, and swiveled towards his voice, starting with “I’m sorry sir, I don’t know what…you…mean,” and barely swallowed the lump in her throat. 

The man before her was very tall, and broad, in a muscled fashion. Black ink ran over his arms and peeked up through his collar, but the marks on his face would always attract the most attention. Even curtained by long black hair, Sansa could see the leathery, burned skin with its pocks and fissures covering half of his features.


	2. Innocence walks in

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: jonquils are a type of daffodil

It was comical, Sandor thought, the way this beautiful girl stuttered as she took in the ruin of his face, her eyes widening and then flittering, focusing on a point beneath his chin. A tension crept in her lovely features. He could see the effort with which she was trying to keep her emotions – her _disgust_ – in hand. 

“I’m not a sir,” he told her. 

“Excuse me?”

“Just what I said. I’m not a sir, and I don’t want to be addressed as one,” he grumbled. He knew a sir Clegane once. Humankind would never realize what kind of bullet it’d dodged by the bloody bastard being good and dead. Sandor abhorred being associated with him in any way, even by a meaningless title.

“Okay,” the girl nodded, confusion plain in her eyes. “Why did you say that – about the Stranger?” she asked.

“The ink you were looking at,” he said, gesturing at the design. It was one of his latest commissions, an intense rendition of the god of death, spanning the full back of one of his clients. It had taken him four lengthy and harrying sessions to work out the piece, with the guy constantly moaning about the pain. During the second session Sandor had told him to shut up or bugger off to find someone else to finish his tat. The guy still groaned, but at least the complaints stopped.

“Oh,” the pretty girl replied, “no, no. I, ah, was just examining it when you walked in. It’s…intimidating.”

He could practically smell her lie. And she was still keeping her eyes lowered. 

Sandor snorted. “Not to your taste, little bird?” he said, eyeing the cutesy bird patterns on her dress. She furrowed her brow at his words, fidgeting with the pleads of her skirt and rearranging the small purse resting on her hip. “No, not really,” she confessed, after a pause. “Isn’t that sacrilegious, flaunting one of the gods on your body?”

A grating laugh escaped Sandor’s lips. _Seven hells, what sort of gilded cage has she fled from? And then to wind up in my haunt?_ “What gods?” he said, smiling cruelly. “Those bland figures the Septons mumble to in their prayers? I solely believe in death, girl. Death comes for everyone.” 

There was a pull around her mouth that told him she disagreed with what he said. It only made her look more attractive. Her elegant presence, standing straight-backed before his counter, seemed to set off stronger against the dark imagery displayed on the walls. A part inside him scratched to come out and prey on the innocence she radiated, that absolute confidence she carried that bad things could not happen to her. He wanted to taunt her, scare her, break through the polite posture she had been taught to enact. He wanted her to see how _wrong_ she was. 

_Too bad she’s a potential customer._ He had garnered underground notoriety as a tattoo artist. He wouldn’t need to sustain on water and bread if he lost one client due to his attitude, but he had enough pride in his skill and occupation to rein his flares in. There was one thing Sandor Clegane would never abide from his clients, though.

He moved away from behind the counter, and stepped closer to the girl. Her eyes widened at his approach. A sweet scent clung to her, some flower perhaps. She opened her mouth to protest his encroachment on her personal space, but he was quicker. “I want to make one thing clear,” he said.

It was obvious the little bird was ready to bolt at any moment now. She crossed her arms protectively above her chest. _Bugger it, she’ll probably run and report me. But first she’ll look._

He caught her chin in his hand and forced her to face him. “If you deal with me, you’ll look me in the eye,” he rasped. He held her stare, and the blue hue of her irises did not start to swirl but rather turned to ice. She set her jaw. _Not going to fly off, then._

“Fine,” said she. 

He withdrew his hand, satisfied with her answer. He backed away some, but stayed afore the counter. They gazed at each other, both unwilling to yield. One of them would have to open his mouth and resume whatever normalcy was left. Someone would have to concede. 

Fear waned in her pupils. It was when understanding began to emerge in them that he found himself suddenly averting his head. _You can’t understand, girl_ , he thought angrily. 

“What do you want done?” he demanded bluntly.

She released a breath, and loosened her stance. “How polite of you to ask.” _A peck, dog._ He had underestimated her. 

She took her purse in hand and rummaged through its contents. For such a small purse it took her quite some time to find what she was hunting for. “Aha!” she cried eventually, holding up a crumpled piece of paper. She carefully straightened it out, and a smile crept back on her face inspecting it. “I would like you to do a tattoo based on this, please.” She held out the paper to him.

He snatched it up and examined it. The name Joffrey had been written in large elegant letters on it, with little flourishes. A few jonquils were drawn around it, and a ribbon with hearts on it coiled itself around the type. He didn’t have to look up to check if she was serious, he knew she was. Still, it was hard not to mock the sugary design she had composed. 

“What’s this ribbon supposed to be?” _And who is this asshole you’re willing to inscribe it on your skin for?_

Her smile broadened. She clearly enjoyed discussing her artwork. “It’s not a ribbon. It’s a scarf,” she told him with pride, as if that would explain it all. When he gave her a blank look, she elaborated. “You know, like the one from WBC’s _Florian and Jonquil_?”

“Never seen it,” he grunted.

“You didn’t see it?” she gasped. “But it was their hit show last fall! Everyone talked about it. It was a beautiful.”

_Every doe-eyed girl talked about it, you mean._ “I know the story, and the song. A fool and his cunt,” he shrugged. 

The pull around her mouth reappeared, and again she let his harsh words slide, continuing her explanation. “WBC’s version of Florian and Jonquil was set in modern day Westeros. In the original story, Jonquil gives him her favor and confesses her love before he rides off. In the TV show, she gives him a scarf.”

“A pink scarf with red hearts on it?” he said, unbelieving. 

“Yes! It’s supposed to symbolize my undying love for Joffrey.”

To Sandor, it mainly symbolized bad taste. 

The girl seemed oblivious of his concerns, and happily chattered some more about the story she adored. “The show isn’t my _all-time_ favorite depiction of Florian and Jonquil, though. I’ve watched all seven movie adaptions too, several times. Nothing beats _The Maiden in the Pool_ , even if it’s almost eighty years old now. Duncan Tall is the ultimate Florian,” she stated dreamily.

The last movie Sandor watched had been _The Long Night: Return of The Ice Zombies_. Older memories awoke, of him and a young girl lounging on the couch, looking in rapture at the screen. Playing the story out after. Him accepting the favor. He pushed it away, shaking his head. 

The little bird stared at him funnily. _Fuck, did I say something out loud?_

“You know, you look a little bit like him. On your good side, I mean.”

“Look like who?” he asked, confused.

“Duncan Tall.”

Sandor let out another snort. “Sorry little bird. No famous actor in my ancestry.” 

She threw him a sidelong glance. “I should apologize. We’ve been talking for minutes, and I’ve forgotten to introduce myself. My name is Sansa Stark.” She extended her hand.

Just as he thought he’d seen through her, the girl did something unexpected. _Well, chirps like this_ are _to be expected from a bird._ “Sandor Clegane,” he told her as he enveloped her palm with his, warm and soft and delicate. 

“Nice to meet you, Sandor Clegane.” They shook hands. He reluctantly released hers afterwards. 

“So, what do you think of my design? Can you do it, please? Like, now?” Sansa inquired, excited.


	3. Bartering with a hound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your support and comments! Here's the third part, which has been slightly altered from the version that I posted on LJ. Tell me what you think about it!

“No,” he grunted. Sansa’s smile faded. _Why is he being hateful again? I thought we just got past that._

“Why not?”

“How come he’s not here?” he challenged her. 

It was Sansa’s turn to be puzzled. “Who?”

He tapped the paper with her drawing, lying on the counter. “This Joffrey kid. Couples usually come together when they’re getting a relationship tattoo.” 

The blush she had worn when he first laid his eyes on her returned with a vengeance. “That’s because…it’s supposed to be a secret. It’s a present, for him.”

Sandor craned the eyebrow on his good side. Sansa could’ve laughed for the absurd image it made, if it hadn’t been incredibly insensitive of his disfigurement. “He’s into tattoos?” the big man queried.

“I don’t know,” she said, awkwardly. “I want it to be a statement. A proof of how I feel for him.”

“And you thought of a tattoo?” he said, eyes narrowing. _He doesn’t believe me. Or at least senses I’m holding something back._ She wasn’t inclined to launch into an extensive account of her love troubles, though. 

“There are other ways to effectively show you like a guy, you know,” he told her, giving her a hard stare. _I know_ , Sansa thought. Yet another argument why she needed Joff to understand how she felt. They’d kissed, and she let him touch her body, even down _there_ , but that was as far as Sansa was ready to go. It was one more reason for him to be suspicious of her…

_Why can’t he just place the tattoo?_ He’d been alternately uncivil, intimidating and curt with her, but had relaxed somewhat in the last minutes. She had brought the conversation back to her design because of the lighter mood, hoping that things would run smoothly and she’d be out of the shop in an hour or so, with her quest accomplished. She had no idea what she was doing for him to be so difficult.

“Why do you care about my reasons?” she voiced her misgivings.

The burnt corner of his mouth twitched. “Call it professional interest. Don’t want to use a tattoo gun on your skin just for you to come squalling back after a month because it didn’t work out with _Joffrey_ , do I?” He put a mocking spin on his last words. “How long have you actually been with this boy?”

“How does that matter?” she almost yelled. His smirk needled her even more. “Do you ask this of everyone who wants a tattoo to show their love?” 

“Might be I do, little bird.” The smirk turned into a toothy grin. _He’s playing with me._

Sansa took a deep breath. She just needed to convince him that she was serious and firm about her intentions. “Even though Joff and I have only been together for _two months_ ,” she accentuated, daring him to comment on it, “I know that I love him. I love him like Jonquil loved Florian.” It almost hurt to proclaim her feelings to a stranger like this, so desperate she needed them to be real. She took a step towards the Hound, but couldn’t bring herself to face him as she talked. “What Joffrey and I have is true love. I want to show him that. Him and the world.” 

She looked up to gauge his reaction, and was startled to notice how little distance remained between her and the Hound. _Has he moved too?_

“True love, is it?” he said, towering above her. 

“Yes,” she answered, exasperated.

He stood at barely an arm’s length, eyes glinting. Sansa felt a spark run through her body that raised the hair on her arms as he appraised her in silence. Eventually, he scraped his throat. “I have a proposal for you. A test.”

“A test?”

“A test,” he confirmed. “You claim that what you and this kid have is the real deal. Then you wouldn’t mind wagering a bet on it, would you?” He leaned in and bore his gaze in hers. 

“What sort of bet?” she asked, wary.

“Little bird, if your faith in love is so strong, you shouldn’t have to worry about losing, no?” She sensed that he was trying to trap her into something. Yet she could not back down from her words, not now. 

“Very well, I’ll do it,” she said. “Tell me what you have in mind.” 

He looked as if he was about to gobble her up. “A promise on your true love, miss Stark?” he asked her. It seems he wasn't going to let off until he was sure she was well and cornered.

“A promise,” she nodded. 

“Here’s the deal,” he drawled. “You come back in two months, and if you and your boyfriend are still all lovey-dovey, I’ll do the tattoo. I’ll do it exactly the way you want, where you want it, which size, all for free,” he told her, waving the paper she’d given him. “However, if it turns out that you two weren’t meant to be after all in two months’ time, I get to pick the design of the ink, _placement_ and size.” Another awful, cruel smirk split his face. 

“Okay,” Sansa told him. “Okay.” Her thoughts whirled. _Why can’t he just do it? Why does he have to act like that? Why have I agreed to this?_

She might as well just visit another parlor tomorrow and get her design done, no stupid wagers attached. He was toying with her, mocking her. Nobody would blame her if she never stepped foot in here again. “I’m going now,” she announced. 

“Fly away then, little bird,” the Hound grunted, but she wasn’t listening anymore as she made her way out.

_I promised him._ However demeaning Sandor Clegane’s behavior had been, she would prove him wrong. Her prince loved her. He did.


	4. Interlude for a bastard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's short and a break from the story's previous chapters. Trivia: I was weirdly inspired by the song 'Call your girlfriend' by Robyn, as this update is a twisted version of it. Sandor's speech slightly recalls the song.

He should’ve just left it there, should have let things run their course. Instead he found himself punching the names Joffrey and Sansa Stark into the Google search box. The first hit was a comment on a high school forum board, that went along the lines of ‘Have you heard? Arya Stark’s sister Sansa is dating that super hot Joffrey Lannister-Baratheon…’ From there it was an easy jump to the boy’s Facebook, green eyes arrogantly staring out the screen for all the digital world to view. At least the little bird was cautious enough to limit her page to friends from friends. 

He needed only a glance at the kid’s wall, the cocky status updates, the news feed shares and uploaded images peppered with snide or racy comments. _Pretty, stupid little bird_ , he thought. Flying straight toward a glass barrier without comprehending the death-smack that would follow. Sandor knew himself for an asshole, but an honest, realistic asshole at least. Joffrey Baratheon was something else: unless he had some sort of split personality, this was an elite rank bastard who expected the world to bow for him. 

Photographs told him where the boy hung out regularly: the recently refurbished and trending district around the Dragonpit in King’s Landing, where a new bar or club sprouted up every other day.

It took him only a few evenings sacrificed to stake-outs to catch sight of his target. Joffrey was standing in front of a club, chatting up a girl, conspicuously not Sansa. The bodyguard, Sandor hadn’t counted on. Luckily the guy gave off all the signs of being an overconfident amateur. He bided his time, waiting till the boy would emerge again. He cornered him alone around three in the morning, in a back alley. He had no idea where the guard had run off too, but it was all for the better. He snatched the kid by the arm and slammed him against a wall. The Hound knew how to make an effective threat. 

The boy shrieked about money, but he told him to shut up and fucking listen. He leaned in slowly, stopping just a hand’s breadth of his face. “You’ll go to Sansa Stark’s place tomorrow,” he rasped. “You tell her that you’ve come to break up. You tell her it’s your fault. You tell her she’s not to blame for anything. You tell her…,” he hesitated for a second, “you tell her it wasn’t true love. And then you leave. Don’t contact her again. And If I hear of any _irregularities_ befalling her afterwards that I can somehow link to your sorry person, you’ll rue the day your father pumped you in your mother’s belly.”

He released the trembling boy, a faint smell of urine wafting up. Turned around and didn’t look back.

He knew he was causing the little bird a lot of pain with this move, but he was just jump-starting what would’ve happened anyway. Or so he told himself.


	5. Sister's grace

A _thump_ on her bedroom door cut through the sound of the TV. When she didn’t respond, a second louder _thump_ came, followed by muffled words, “Sansa, I need to talk to you.” 

“Leave me alone, Arya!” she shouted from her bed, curled around a pillow in the darkness of the room, the eerie glow of the television her only light source. 

“Gods Sansa, you’ve been wallowing in there for almost a week. No way fucking Joffrey is worth that, stupid. You’re just throwing your holidays away.”

“You don’t understand anything.” Her little sister couldn’t possibly comprehend how her world had crumbled down. Arya hated Joffrey. She probably laughed when she heard that Joff had broken up with her. 

Her sister was quiet for a minute, but then resumed. “Believe it or not, but I’m not here to discuss the recent crash of your love life.”

“What are you bothering me for, then?” she challenged, but her heart wasn’t in it anymore. If she was honest with herself, she would have to admit that her self-imposed isolation was wearing her down. She had craved it the first days, had needed to hide herself. She had been so sure that her life had been over, her grand story finished before it had even properly taken off. Instead of galloping off into the distance to a Happily Ever After with her prince, she’d gotten dropped along the wayside. 

Her parents disapproved of her behavior, but hadn’t commented on it, or forced her to come out of her hermit hole. And though she’d had lengthy phone conversations with Jeyne, it wasn’t the same as a face-to-face talk. 

Arya mumbled something outside her room. 

“I can’t hear you,” Sansa said, as she fumbled under her blanket for the TV remote control. 

“I said,” Arya bit out in a voice that tried to straddle the sound between a whisper and a growl, “I heard you went to the Hound.”

She froze up. Of course she had remembered the stupid bet during her crying spells, but at that moment it had seemed like an afterthought to the hurt Joffrey had caused. Having bumped on the remote control at last, she swiftly turned off the television and slid out of bed. A quick jerk of her curtains let in the harsh sunlight, and then she went to the door and unlocked it. 

“Finally,” Arya huffed as the door opened. Her eyes landed on Sansa’s puffy eyes, disheveled hair and her crumpled, slightly smelly pajamas. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like a wreck,” her sister told her. Sansa gave her a weak smile. “I had other things on my mind lately. This suited me just fine for a movie marathon.” _And for hours of crying._

Her sister stepped into the bedroom and closed the door behind her back. She threw Sansa a calculating look. “A certain source told me they spotted you in Stoney Sept Alley, asking after Hound Tattoos,” Arya said. “Now, I called that source stupid and blind as a mole because it couldn’t be true, not with my stuck up sister, but…” 

“It’s true,” Sansa said curtly. She needed to confide her story to someone, and Jeyne was out of the question, just as her parents or her brothers, save Bran. Her sister could be hotheaded and stubbornly single-minded, but she was loyal and knew how to keep a secret.

Arya’s mouth fell open at her admission. “You really went?” And as another realization hit her, her eyes widened. “Seven’s shit, have you gotten a tattoo?” Her voice vibrated with incredulity. Sansa took her sister’s hands and led her to the bed. “Sit down, and I’ll tell you everything,” she said with a sigh.

 

Divulging the story of her journey to the tattoo parlor had been liberating, but it hadn’t made things easier for Sansa. She still wavered on what she should do with the whole mess. With her love quashed in as little as four sentences by Joff, she had considerably cooled down on her tattoo idea. And Arya didn’t help either. 

Her sister had been faithful in keeping her mouth about it to everyone else, but found it great fun to tease her with the many possible images the Hound could put on her skin, now that he had technically acquired a free rein over it. She would casually mention things like, “Ice zombies are all the rage now, everyone wants them on their arm or back. I bet he’ll do something different, like a man-eating tree or a dragon or something.” Sansa had sweat-inducing nightmares where she walked out of Sandor Clegane’s parlor with that horrifying snarling dog-head covering her, neck to tailbone. 

She had made a promise, though. The more she thought about the wager, the more it seemed to her that in a strangely twisted way the Hound had wanted to protect her. _A quite uncivil, mean way._ She was certain he would gloat in his victory, but he had questioned her dedication to get the tattoo with reason. _Maybe he’ll let me off with a warning?_ That would probably be too much to hope. 

Her sister’s teasing wasn’t totally without its venom. Arya had set her sights on an ink since she was thirteen. Father and mother had always refused her pleas and near blackmails, but they realized the day would come that their say in it would become obsolete. That day was still seven months off, though. And now her sister had found the perfect target to extort. 

“Like hells I’ll let you get a tattoo before me, sis,” she had said. “When you go, I’ll come with you.”

“I’m not even sure I want to go,” Sansa told her, exasperated. “And I can’t give parental consent for you. I’m your sister, not your guardian.” Sansa was dead for sure once her parents found out she’d gotten a tattoo, but if it turned out she’d enabled Arya too, the repercussions would be…ghastly. 

Arya made a face. “I know you, Sansa. You’ll go. You’re too nice to stand anybody up.”

Eventually she talked her little sister out of it by promising her she’d pay for Arya’s ink in time when she turned eighteen.


	6. Braving the chair

She trembled only a little as she pushed the door handle down, reentering the jaws of Hound Tattoos. The _ring_ of the door bell sounded just a tiny bit shriller than the first time. The soothing yellow walls and the quaint scent of the place welcomed her back.

A new addition was the unknown man hanging at the counter, talking to Clegane. 

They were laughing as they chatted. Then they spotted her. The man, lean and dark and brutally staring, righted himself and smirked. _I can see they’re friends_ , she thought. The man glanced back at the Hound, and strolled to the entrance. “I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone,” he jested loudly as he passed Sansa.

“Ignore the idiot,” Sandor Clegane said. “Bronn has a big mouth, but he whines like a puppy when I’m busy with him.”

“I heard that!” the man shouted in good cheer as he let himself out.

Sansa was relieved to find the Hound in such high spirits. _Everything will be alright_ , she told herself. She would tell him he’d won, and he would laugh at her and shake his head. _And then?_ Her belly rumbled in nervousness.

Things went as she had played them off in her head. The Hound sneered, “Didn’t I warn you, little bird?” though she discerned a certain grave note in his voice. She stayed silent then, apprehensive of what he would do. She still oscillated on the point whether she liked the idea of getting a tattoo or not. 

“Miss Stark,” he said formally, boring his eyes – _grey like father’s and Arya’s_ , she realized – into hers. “You made a deal, and dues should be paid. My chair is waiting for you.” The burned corner of his mouth twitched.

Sansa released a breath, hesitated for a heartbeat, and then nodded. As Clegane gestured her to the the back of the shop, she straightened herself and followed his lead behind the solid screen that portioned it off. 

The space she entered was half the size of the front parlor and windowless. The big leather chair was settled like a throne in the middle of it. Sansa let her eyes wander the room. A sturdy looking stool, a lamp, and a small cart loaded with strange multicolored tubes, machinery and other stuff surrounded the throne like courtiers flocking to royalty. More tubes and flacons where collected on planks lining the ever-yellow walls. A cabinet loomed in the far left corner. The medicinal smell permeated the work place. 

“I closed the shop, so we won’t be bothered,” Clegane rumbled behind her.

“Okay,” she said. _No way out now._

“Have you eaten something the last few hours, little bird?” he asked. “Don’t want you passing out on the chair or throwing up on my material. Got some chocolate here somewhere.”

“No, thank you. I’ve had lunch before I came. Should I sit?”

He inspected her outfit, a casual tee and jeans. “Take off your shirt first.”

She swallowed and glanced at him. Unlike last time, his eyes and stance were much more aloof and pragmatic. Only the curved up corner of his mouth bespoke of his previous attitude, the rest of him was all businesslike. 

Complying wordlessly with his order, Sansa pulled the fabric over her head. Goose bumps spread over her skin. She protectively crossed her arms in front of her simple white bra. Sandor Clegane, however, had already turned away and was collecting his instruments. 

“You can sit now,” he told her as he prepared. 

She slithered on the chair, the puffy leather seemingly sucking her in. A soft _crack_ made her swivel her head in Clegane’s direction. He was putting on black gloves. Next he settled himself on the stool and pulled the utility cart close to him. Sansa suddenly felt extremely conscious of their proximity. The goose bumps had not yet retreated as her blush joined it in the broadcasting of her awkwardness. 

Clegane seemed not to notice, and plucked a grey stretch cloth from out under the cart, dangling it in front of her. “Put this on. It’ll help.”

She observed the blindfold warily. “Is that really necessary?” she asked.

He cracked a smile, more mischievous than mocking. “This isn’t a special treat, little bird. I don’t like it when people squirm, trying to see what I’m doing, how the design is coming along. Some customers say it helps them focus on something else than the pain and the boredom.” He craned his eyebrow, waiting for her decision.

Sansa considered it for a moment, but knew that curiosity would probably get the better of her, and he’d end up forcing the blindfold on her in irritation. “Alright,” she breathed. She held out a hand, and he gently placed the cloth in her palm. It rested easy and cool on her eyes, greying out the world.

With her visual senses shut out, Sandor Clegane’s gravelly voice filled the void, weirdly soothing. “It might be that you’ll feel something when I’m working on your skin. It might be an itch, it might be vexing, it might be torture,” he told her. “It’s different from person to person. This should be bearable…but you never know until you’re under the needle.” It sounded like a speech he had delivered more than once. She was waiting for him to say, ‘if it’s really too much, I’ll stop’, but he didn’t. 

_Does he need a cue from me to continue?_ She wondered. Abruptly, the chair’s back and leg end moved, so that Sansa’s position was shifted to lying at a forty-five degree’s angle. Then she felt the sensation of a doused soft tissue, like a cotton pad, swiping over the area between her left collarbone and her breast. She tensed at the contact. 

“Steady, little bird,” he said, “the hard part’s yet to come. I’m going to draw the outline with the needle now. You’ll probably feel the sting.”

 

It hurt like the Hound said it would, but not as much as she feared. The needles did sting. They scratched her skin uncomfortably, but it wasn’t horrible. As minutes passed she got used to it. 

It came as no surprise that the burned man was not interested in small talk during his work. She could hear him grunt, and mumble, and rummage through the contents on his cart, but little else disturbed the air. She compared it to her visits to the beauty salon – more fun but certainly not less painful sometimes - where classical music or recordings of natural sounds were softly played in the background, and judged that she didn’t mind the quiet of the Hound’s laboring. 

Time flowed and she floated, hanging on to trails of thought that went nowhere in particular. When she felt another soft fabric swaddle her sensitive skin, she understood it was done. 

“Don’t go stirring yet,” he rasped. “I just need to finish the bandage.”

Disappointment came over her. “Can’t I see it?”

“No. You’ll have to wait at least half a day before you can remove the dressing,” he said, chuckling. A moment later he lifted off the blindfold. Sansa had to blink several times before her eyes adjusted to the electrical light. A dizzy spell hit her when she righted herself in the chair,. 

Clegane let her recover, all the while examining her face. “You alright?” he asked eventually.

“Yes. I’m fine, thank you,” she told him, as the world slowly stopped spinning. He grinned at her. “You can make yourself decent again.” 

So she redressed. Clegane set off on an elaborate account of the care she needed to apply to the skin and tattoo, while she nodded and affirmed that she understood and memorized his instructions. He offered her a bit of chocolate, which she accepted.

They moved back to the shop. “Remember what I told you, little bird. The piece is not finished yet – _you_ have to make sure it heals satisfyingly,” he stressed again. 

Still a bit lightheaded, Sansa looked up at him. She suppressed the urge to grab her purse and pay him, which he would refuse. “I have no idea what this is,” she said, laying a hand on where the bandage bulged her shirt, “but…whatever it is, I’m sure you’ve put your love in it. Thank you for that.” 

“Chirping again,” he quipped. “Guess you’re all better now.” 

“I do feel better.” It was true. Not only in a physical way. Her thoughts seemed to have experienced a cleansing, their dark fringes dissipated. _Or maybe I’m still too weak to think straight._

He grunted in response, and waved her toward the exit as he started leafing through some paperwork on the counter. Sansa got the odd sense he was putting on a show. 

She fidgeted for a moment, feeling as if she should say or do some more, but then decided she was being silly. 

“Bye then,” she said as she neared the front. “Till next time.”

She didn’t get an answer, but he glanced up before she shut the door. His grey eyes were impervious, and he scrunched up the sheets he held in his fist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I haven't dropped the ball in presenting a tattooing scene that has at least a realistic contour! The blindfold is not common practice, solely an addition I conjured up to draw out the mystery. 
> 
> Next chapter is the ending, which will be short but sweet.


	7. The ink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we've come to the end. The fact that this story exceeded 150 kudos made me very happy (a goal I had set for myself), thank y'all for your love and support!

They holed themselves up in her bathroom the next day. Arya insisted that she wanted to be there for the big reveal, and Sansa consented with it. 

Her sister had jumped her as soon as Sansa was alone after returning from her trip, besieging her for details and a look at the ink. Obliging Arya, she’d related the story and elaborated on anything her little sister was curious about. 

“I can’t wait till I get mine,” her sister had sighed. Sansa could understand the longing in Arya’s voice a little better. Her time in the leather chair had been an uncanny experience.

Concealing the dressing from the rest of her family had been easier than she had imagined. It wasn’t a very thick bandage, so simply wearing a jacket over her tee had done the trick. In the evening, she feinted tiredness and retreated early to her bedroom.

And now the moment had come. The light in the bathroom glared on the white tiles lining the walls. The sisters were pulled toward the big mirror above the wash basin. Sansa had piled the stuff she needed for the aftercare behind her towels yesterday. She had no idea how long she would be able to keep the tattoo a secret, but she was planning to preserve her parents' ignorance for a lengthy stretch.

Sansa unbuttoned her blouse, sliding it off when it was loose. She examined the bandage, carefully touching it. Her heart twittered jittery beneath it. The design could not be anything large. Three inches on three at the most, she estimated. _Do it_ , she told herself. “I’m scared,” rolled out of her mouth.

“Let me help,” Arya told her, for once not pelting her about her insecurity. 

Sansa turned to her sister. “No, I need to do this. Just…don’t laugh if it’s stupid, alright?” she begged. All the anxiety that had haunted her before going to the tattoo parlor had reemerged viciously. 

“I won’t,” Arya promised.

Cautiously, Sansa peeled off the dressing, focusing on the fabric and not the ink that was underneath it. The last strip of plaster removed, she swallowed and glanced at her sister. 

Arya’s expression shifted from curiosity to confusion, creasing her eyebrows. “It’s-” she started, but Sansa forced herself to face the mirror. 

The vibrant yellow caught her eye first, contrasting the black stylized figure. “Oh,” she said. A bird in flight had been drawn in bold, flowing lines. It held a vivacious jonquil in its beak. “It’s beautiful.”

She vaguely registered her sister going on behind her about how atypical the design was, coming from the hand of the Hound. She was admiring her ink, and yearned to touch it, to follow the lines marked on her skin. Fear of accidently messing it up kept her fingers in check. She had not counted on the attachment she instantly experienced as she beheld it. 

Giddiness rose from her belly and overtook her. Her reflection was smiling like a loon. Suddenly, hiding the tattoo was far from a desire anymore. The drawing was utterly personal, infused with a meaning only two people fully understood, but something she wanted to share and brandish nonetheless. 

_I need to find a way to thank Sandor properly for this._ Another thought followed on its wings. _I’m sure I can convince him to use pink the next time._

~The End~


End file.
